Official Business
by aewriteon
Summary: A slow case takes an unexpected turn when Sam and Dean find that they've attracted some unwanted attention.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. Takes place after the Season 4 episode "Sex and Violence."

* * *

"This is a strange case, man," Dean announced as he shut his book in frustration. "I figure it's gotta be some Eastern European legend... there are a lot of people here with that background. I wish Bobby would call back with the translations. Latin's one thing, but Polish is something else." He glanced at Sam. "You got any ideas?" No response. "Sam?" Still nothing. "Sam!"

"I heard you, Dean."

"And?"

Sam shrugged. "And no, I don't have any ideas… I don't even know why we're here," he muttered.

"What?" Dean said, suddenly at attention.

Sam cleared his throat. "I said, I don't know why we're here. A couple people slip on some ice on their way to church and all of a sudden we're dealing with a violent spirit? Just seems unlikely and irrelevant, considering."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Considering what, exactly?"

"I think you know," Sam snapped. Casting a glance around the library, he lowered his tone. "Months have passed and we are no closer to finding Lilith or doing a damn thing about the seals. I am so sick of sitting on my ass doing nothing." Dean scoffed. "What's so funny?" Sam asked angrily.

"Oh, it's just that I think your ass has a real interesting definition of doing nothing." When Sam made no motion to respond, Dean sighed and continued. "We are doing something, Sam. We're saving people." He looked up, trying to catch Sam's gaze. "These old folks? You and I both know they didn't just slip. Something bad's at work here. I can tell. But maybe you can't anymore."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Don't be an ass. I know you've been out with that demon bitch the last five nights."

"Dean-"

"Save it, Sam. I don't know what you're doing and you know what? I don't think I really want to. I sure ain't gonna be waking up in the middle of the goddamn night to follow you."

Sam abruptly got up from the table, noisily sliding the chair against the library's marble floor. Placing both palms on the wooden table, he leaned down closer to Dean. "I am going to get a drink," he said, his tone dangerously controlled. "If this keeps up, I think we're both going to say things we regret. If you want to join me, fine, but consider this conversation done." Dean glared at his brother and remained stubbornly in place. Without another word, Sam gathered up his jacket and strode quickly away from the library. It wasn't until Sam was out of sight that Dean allowed his shoulders to slump and began massaging his temples. Dammit, why didn't he know when to stop? Ever since the siren, things had been going to shit. Try as he might, he couldn't just unhear the awful things Sam had said to him. Dean knew that he'd meant every word he'd said to Sam, and had no doubt that there had been truth in Sam's accusations as well.

His life had never been easy, but Dean seriously wondered sometimes how things had possibly gotten this complicated. He'd been excited by this hunt – it was an opportunity to do some good and save some lives. He hadn't counted on a simple library trip spiraling out of control. At least Pittsburgh was a college town, he thought as some pretty coeds walked past his table. There was no way he was going to that bar with Sam, but he was hungry. He'd heard about a sandwich shop in town where they put the fries right on the bread, with the meat and cheese and everything. Dean made a copy of the article he was reading and headed for the Impala. Distracted by thoughts of Sam and sandwiches, he didn't notice a tall man lingering alongside a nearby van. Without warning, Dean's vision went black and he slumped to the pavement, keys still in hand.

* * *

Sam downed the last of his beer and wasted no time signaling the bartender over. He needed whiskey, a double shot. Sam closed his eyes and tried to drown out the sounds of the crowded bar. Amazing how a guy can be surrounded by people but feel all alone, Sam thought as he brought his glass to his lips. It tasted good… maybe a little too good. Sam hadn't forgotten how well alcohol dulled his pain, softened up the hard edges of his life. After Dean had died...

Before he knew it, Sam was slamming down his empty glass and motioning for another. As he waited impatiently for the bartender to bring it over, he accidentally caught a glimpse of his reflection in the decorative mirror behind the bar. All at once, he noticed a few things. For one, the bartender's easy smile had disappeared and been replaced by a worried frown as he refilled Sam's glass. Secondly, three barstools over a girl's shirt had slipped so low that Sam could see her pink, lacy bra half on display for the whole bar to see. But most of all, Sam noticed himself. No wonder no one was sitting next to him, even though the bar was crowded. His hair was in his face, hiding his eyes, and something about him seemed dangerous and unpredictable. Before the bartender had a chance to turn back around, Sam had already thrown down a twenty and headed for the door.

It was cold out, and Sam walked quickly to try to generate some body heat. He hoped Dean would be asleep by the time he got back, and they could just wake up tomorrow morning and pretend nothing had happened.

They were good at that.

* * *

Dean noticed the pain before he noticed the restraints. His cheekbone ached, and he was sure he felt hardened blood down the side of his face. Gingerly, he tried to test the movement of his limbs, only to find that they were all securely bound to a chair. Dean shivered, and realized he was actually outside. Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by piles of junk – cans, tires, even some old appliances.

"He's awake!"

Dean tried to turn his head to see where the sound had come from. A large, muscular man dressed in a black leather coat walked toward him menacingly, and Dean wished he could somehow feign unconsciousness just a little while longer. The man drew closer and began pacing in front of him.

"Hello, Dean." Dean swallowed nervously. The man smiled. "Yes, Dean, I know your name. I know a lot about you – Sam, too – and what I don't know, I'm hoping you'll fill in the details."

Here goes nothing, Dean thought as he willed his lips into a smile. "Listen, buddy, you've definitely got the wrong guy. My name's Jimmy Hetfield; I've got my license in my wallet. Can't seem to reach it right now, though. So if you just want to take a look at it, I think we'll have this whole misunderstanding all cleared up and-"

The man backhanded Dean square across the left side of his face. Dean could feel that a fresh wound had opened, and looked on with some amusement as the thug realized he had gotten Dean's blood on his own leather jacket. Clearly upset, the man angrily unzipped his jacket and threw it to the dusty ground. Dean looked up at the man, and was startled to see the small black and white collar he wore around his neck. "You're a _priest_?"

The man shrugged. "Doesn't matter who or what I am. All you should be concerned with is giving me answers."

"Whoa, whoa, how is this possibly okay? Last I checked, priests didn't go around beating guys up for not answering questions they hadn't even been asked yet."

The man seemed to consider this for a moment. "Fine," he replied. "Where is your brother?"

"I don't have a brother." This time, Dean was expecting the punch. Damn! If this guy was really a priest, he sure knew how to hit.

"Tell me where Sam is, Dean."

Dean remained silent. He wasn't going to give this idiot the satisfaction of a response. A fist to the gut had him nearly puking up his breakfast. For a moment, he was glad he hadn't gotten that sandwich. "Listen, Padre, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I'm here in Pittsburgh with my show choir from Penn State." The man punched Dean hard in the shoulder, so hard that Dean toppled over. He hit the ground awkwardly, still tied to the chair. The man delivered a swift kick to Dean's ribs.

"That's enough, Father Patrick!" Through his rapidly swelling eye, Dean could just make out the approaching form of a dark-haired woman. "Do you really think he's going to respond to fists?" She eyed Dean carefully, shaking her head. "Please, Patrick. What you're doing is barbaric…and ineffective." Dean was silent, but intrigued. The woman was short but fit – mid-30s, he guessed. She could have been attractive in a serious, academic way, and she had a hint of an accent.

As Dean was taking in the new arrival, Patrick was visibly trying to keep his anger in check. "I was supposed to get the first crack at him. We agreed."

She nodded. "So we did. But I think you've done quite enough. There are other ways to make a man talk than through physical force. In fact," she glanced at Dean curiously, "I think that is quite possibly the last thing to which someone with Dean's… background would respond."

"And what do you suggest, Sister?"

"Sister?" Dean spat out in disbelief. "This chick's a nun?"

The woman ignored him. "Pick him up, Patrick, and bring the chair over here. I have something that I want Dean to see."

Dean gritted his teeth as the priest righted his chair and roughly dragged him over toward the woman... the nun, Dean amended. Wait till Sammy heard that a nun and a priest had gotten the drop on him. "Listen, Sister, the rest of the guys in the choir are gonna be getting worried soon. I have the big solo tonight and-"

The woman cut him off. "Dean, I know that I've just arrived, but I am in no state of mind to listen to your babble," she said coldly. "Do you think this location is coincidental? You've been around junk yards… like Bobby Singer's place?" Dean tried not to flinch. "The upscale ones aren't just full of old hubcaps and tin cans. They have machines. Special machines. You can put a refrigerator in one end, and it comes out crushed so tiny it would fit under your bed back at the motel." She applied pressure to his injured shoulder as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Think what else a machine like that could do."

Dean grimaced. "I thought you told Patty over there that physical threats were barbaric."

She withdrew her hand, chuckling. "Oh Dean, I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about your _car_."

* * *

More to come later. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. Takes place after the Season 4 episode "Sex and Violence."

* * *

"NOBODY fucks with my car!" Dean thrashed furiously against his bindings as the nun looked on. "Don't you touch it, you bitch." Dean looked around frantically, finally spotting his shiny, black Impala encased within a large metal machine to the woman's left.

"I don't know much about cars," the woman reflected as she approached the Impala, "but Father Patrick tells me this is quite the classic." She reached out and slowly ran her hand along the curve of the Impala's trunk. Dean looked skyward. Some chick stroking his car would normally be hot as hell, but under these circumstances he was ready to break her fingers. The woman cocked her head to the side. "It's a pretty car. Old, but pretty."

"Listen, Whoopi," Dean said testily, "you should shut up about things you don't know a damn thing about."

"Like human nature? Because that's what I'm talking about here, Dean, and believe me, I know a great deal about that. We'll fight for things we care about. And, silly as it seems, you care about this car." She scrutinized his wounds. "More than you care about your face, apparently."

Dean turned his face to the side, hiding the worst of his injuries. "You don't know what you're talking about." Out of her pocket, the woman withdrew a knife. Without warning, she drove it into the Impala's back tire. "NO!" Dean bellowed. "Stop it!"

The woman removed the knife and faced Dean. "Funny. That's more of a reaction than Patrick got out of you."

Obviously not pleased with the comment, Father Patrick got in Dean's face. "Where's your brother?" he roared. Dean spit at him, and was met with another backhanded slap across the face.

"Patrick!" the woman cried out. "I _will_ ask you to leave if you can't control your temper." She shifted her attention to Dean. "Now, Mr. Winchester, Patrick wants to know where Sam is." Dean was silent. "Come on, Dean. A tire is an easy thing to replace," she removed the knife again, "easier than a new coat of paint, I'd imagine." Dean tried to lunge forward in his seat as the woman scraped her knife down the side of the Impala, leaving a long, shallow scratch.

"That car didn't do a damn thing to you!" Dean could feel the ropes cutting into his skin as he struggled. "Stop hurting her, bitch!"

The woman seemed unfazed. "Taillights for an old car like this are probably also tougher to replace," she said, driving the hilt of her knife into the taillight, shattering it. In his head, Dean was tallying the amount of money and time it would take to restore his baby into top shape, and was growing more furious by the minute. "Could you please just agree to answer a few questions, Dean? I haven't really done any permanent damage to your car yet. If you start talking now, I'll even pay for the repairs." Dean pursed his lips and stared at her silently. She looked at him sadly. "Very well." Walking around to the exterior of the machine that encased the Impala, the nun began to turn a dial.

Dean watched, alarmed, as a large metal plate moved down toward the top of the Impala. The longer he remained silent, the more the woman turned the dial, and the closer the machine came to crushing his beautiful ride. Dean swallowed hard. The woman spoke again. "Have you ever seen what a crushed car looks like, Dean?" Dean looked at the ground, seething. "There's a pile of them over there, all stacked up. A machine like that destroys the doors, the windows, the seats, anything that's in the car… Like a jacket." She cocked her head to the side. "You feeling cold, Dean?"

Oh god, his jacket. Dad's jacket. Sister Bitch or Father Patrick must have taken it off of him while he was unconscious. He tried not to let his distress show. Then he looked down and realized what else was missing. "Give it back," he said quietly. The woman abruptly stopped turning the dial and approached Dean. "I don't care about the car, or the jacket, but I want it back… the other thing."

"What's he talking about?" Patrick yelled.

The woman ignored Patrick and looked at Dean. "The necklace," she whispered softly. Dean nodded. "If I give it back, will you start talking?" Dean shook his head no. Without warning, the noise of the machine started up again.

"Patrick, stop! What are you doing?" the woman cried.

"I'm getting results!" Patrick shouted over the roar of the machinery. "You don't have the balls for this – that's why they sent me. You're getting nowhere!"

The woman whirled around to face Dean and roughly grasped his collar in her hand, jerking his face close to her. "Listen well, Winchester," she said. "I'm going to give you back your necklace, but to do that I need you to do exactly as I say." Dean nodded quickly, his eyes glued to his car. "You are going to sit here and not say a word and not make any move to escape, regardless of what happens in the next five minutes, okay?" Dean nodded again. Suddenly, the woman slid onto Dean's lap and pressed her back to his chest. She slipped her arms around Dean's bound ones and threw her head back, an expression of fright on her face. "Patrick, help!" she cried, twisting around. "Patrick, he's got me!" she called again. Dean could feel the woman moving her body against him, working her hand down toward his side. Alarmed, he watched as she withdrew something metallic from her pocket.

Patrick left the car crusher running and quickly sprinted toward Dean and the nun. "Get off of her now!" Patrick shouted and reached behind him to the small of his back. Dean looked wildly at the woman, confused as hell and wondering if he'd been set up. A split second later, Dean watched in shock as Patrick's body fell to the ground, writhing. The woman leapt out of the chair and replaced the metal taser in her belt loop. She ran to the machine, stopping the dial just before the machinery made contact with the Impala.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Dean spat. The nun ignored him and knelt down next to Patrick. She felt for a pulse before removing what looked to be a pistol from her belt and clocking Patrick in the side of the head with it. Task complete, she turned the gun on Dean.

Approaching him carefully, she withdrew a small metal file from her belt and placed it in his hand before stepping back. Dean looked at her quizzically. "I know a bit about you," she explained. "I imagine that you are quite capable of freeing yourself with that. Slide it back to me when you're done, and stand up."

Dean stared at her for a moment before grasping the file more tightly and working to free himself from his ropes. As he worked, he snuck a glance at the nun, who was looking worriedly at Patrick's prone form. "You know," Dean ventured, "maybe you two should have just taken your disagreement to HR." The woman was silent. "Did you kill him?"

"No!" she said, seeming genuinely hurt. "He's just unconscious… will be for a while though. He can't know I did that," she added, almost to herself. "Are you done yet?" Dean finished filing away the last of the ropes on his wrists and reached down to untie his feet. He paused at the sound of the gun being cocked. "Slide me the file first." Dean did as he was told and watched as the nun pocketed the thin piece of metal. "Now get up and face me." Dean rose, wincing as he did so – Patrick had left him with some painful souvenirs.

She considered him for a moment before making her next request. "Take off your shirt."

Dean gaped at her. "Whoa, Sister. Look, I get it – you haven't had sex in literally forever, and I am just that tempting, but I have to say, you're moving a little fast here. First the lapdance, now you want a striptease?"

The nun took aim with the pistol. "Take. Off. Your. Shirt."

Uncomfortable, Dean removed his flannel shirt and threw it at the nun's feet. "There, you happy?"

"Undershirt, too."

Wanting to make a comment but thinking better of it, Dean slipped off the light cotton undershirt and stood awkwardly in front of the woman, naked from the waist up.

"Dios mio!" the nun gasped, her hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped the gun. Recovering, she walked toward Dean. "Stay still," she commanded him. Dean followed her gaze. She was staring directly at his shoulder, the shoulder that bore the permanent reminder of Castiel's saving hand. Dean shivered involuntarily as her fingertips lightly traced his scarred flesh. Pulling back, she brought the gun to her side.

"Dean," she said seriously, "my name is Sister Cristina Elena Inmaculada. I do not want to hurt you, and I do not want to hurt your car."

"Could have fooled me," Dean muttered.

"And unlike my associate," she continued, "I do not care about your brother's whereabouts. The only thing I want to know is how you came to be raised from the dead by an angel. Please know that if you cooperate and answer my questions, I will do the same for you."

* * *

More to come later. Thank you for reading!


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